


Kit

by Mottlemoth



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, F/F, First Meeting, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, PWP, Romance, Sex Toys, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: She's standing next to you at the bar.A wave of men's fragrance washes over your senses—cypress, bergamot and leather, and something you don't recognise for now but in time will learn is the propellant produced by high-powered firearms. It's in her hair. It's on her skin.





	Kit

She likes your dress - black, with white swallows.

You'd worried it was a bit subdued for a bar. You jazzed it up with curls, and the bright eyeliner you bought back in summer but never used until now. Most of your workmates turned up in jeans, which was a relief - and you realised early on it was going to be one of those easy nights where you all just have some fun, and chat, and get home before twelve.

The truth is you've got things to do tomorrow. The flat's a mess; the cupboards are empty. This is one of those ordinary weekends where you need to get on top of things, because they're getting on top of you.

Just a few drinks, you said.

You almost called it a night after cocktails - especially when it seemed to be agreed you'd head to Shooters next. It's a sports bar, and a bit of a dive (as your friends should know by now) but one of them has the hots for a bartender there, and she's drunk enough to cause trouble if you don't all agree to go along.

It's quiet as you arrive. Everyone else is having an easy night, too. Your dress seems out of place for a sports bar - your pretty curls, which for once turned out just right - but you tuck into a corner with your friends, and try to talk over the music. You don't have a clue what matches are playing out on the three enormous screens across the bar. You can name the sports, but not much else. Your co-worker cranes her neck beside you as she keeps an eye out for her bartender - worrying, often and loudly, that he might not be working tonight - and you remind yourself she's your friend, and you'll be back in the office with her on Monday. It's not worth the snark.

Soon, it's getting near to midnight. People check their phones more often. Conversation is possible here, but it's hard over the noise - and it's descended into work talk. You decide you're just about finished.

Noises are made about maybe taxis.

It's decided you'll all use the bathroom (together, obviously) and then make tracks.

It's on the way there that you spot her.

She's up by the pool tables with her group - mostly men, a couple of other women. These people are a different species of person to your friends. They're like a happy dog pack, sprawled on the couches and laughing and drinking, and it's beer and cider all round. They're watching the current pool match, taking place between a blonde man - who leans on his cue far too proudly, and smirks a little too much for your tastes - and _her._

She's not leaning on her cue. She doesn't need to. She's busy using it to ruin him, and they all know it. It's why he's smirking.

She's wearing old jeans, Doc Martens so battered they might have seen military service, and a black tank-top that hugs the sculpted flatness of her stomach. No jewellery; her skin is her jewellery. Tattoos curl from beneath her tank-top, out over her chest and her shoulders and down her muscular arms right to the elbow, unwinding across her body like they've simply grown there - black roses and lace, lines of script, feathers, keys,  vintage pin-up girls.

It's only a few seconds' glimpse that you get, and your view is obscured. She's leaning over the pool table as she lines up another devastating shot.

But it's enough to stop your heart a little.

Her hair's dark, drawn back into a ponytail; her eyes are dark too, flashing as she grins at her rival. She's all presence. She belongs here.

She doesn't notice you.

She's laughing with her friends, punching her fellow pool-player on the arm as he commiserates his impending loss, and she retrieves a pint of cider from the table-end as you watch. She drinks it, laughing into it.

You've never wanted to be a pint glass so much.

You spend the time in the bathroom panicking before the mirror, heart thumping, pretending to answer a text.

These are work friends, and they don't Know.

Honestly, it's not been long since you Knew.

Sometimes you manage to convince yourself you don't Know at all, and it's not a big deal - and that a man will be along any second now to make the issue suddenly irrelevant. It won't matter if you have a boyfriend. A door that might as well stay shut.

But she's out there, you think - playing pool - drinking cider - and you're going to have to walk past her again.

You're going to have to find some balance between gazing your fill and acting wholly unaware that she exists.

Distraction, as one of your workmates spots on Facebook that her ex-boyfriend is suddenly In A Relationship with someone she knows. The tears start. You don't like to see her cry - even if she was only telling you last week how glad she is to be over him - and, once you've tidied her up with tissue, you can't bring yourself to turn down one more drink.

By the time you leave the bathroom, holding your breath, the group near the pool table have gone. All the remains in their wake are a few empty glasses.

You'd like to say it's a relief - but it's not.

It would have been nice to look at her again, you think. Just for a few seconds.

Your friends go off to find a table; you offer to get the drinks. (At least this way you can make sure everyone has only a _small_ glass of wine - and you might still make it home by one. Your other friend asks if you could check whether Antony is working tonight. You promise her you will.)

As the bartender sorts you out five glasses of house white ("Just small ones, please...") someone appears at your side.

You're always a little wary when out - all too familiar with the advances of poorly-trained men - and so your first response is to brace.

Then you spot tattoos.

She's standing next to you at the bar.

A wave of men's fragrance washes over your senses - cypress and bergamot and leather, and something you don't recognise for now, but in time you will learn is the propellant produced by high-powered firearms. It's in her hair. It's on her skin.

Your heart leaps so hard you can't quite fight the flustered motion of your hand. You turn it into a dignified brush of your curls, which handily covers your face. She's right beside you. Her tattoos are glorious - you're face-to-face with the pin-up girl on her upper arm, a redhead clutching a precarious sheet across her abundant curves - and as the stranger orders a pint of real ale, you've never willed a man to pour wine so quickly in your life.

He's taking his bloody time though. Each glass is measured out with care.

At first you think she isn't aware of you, and maybe you can still escape this unscathed.

Then she smiles, lowering her gaze - her forearms rested on the bar - and without looking at you, she says,

"Never in a million years."

You falter, heart fluttering at the sound of her voice. It's a low voice, amused. It's directed at you.

"E-Excuse me?" you try, in your very best impression of dignity.

"You," she says, nodding at the glasses. "Carrying all those."

And she looks at you, and her eyes dance.

Here comes the blush.

"I was going to take half, then - then come back for..." Have you always been this unbearable? You're not sure. Why are you saying this to her? Why aren't you saying something witty and purring and flashing? You don't know. All you know is her shoulders look grippable. She makes you feel grippable, too. _Oh my God. I'm bi. I'm so bi._ "I'm sure I'll manage," you finish in the end.

She's still watching you, delighted - taking you in - watching you struggle.

"I like your dress," she says.

 _Oh my God._ She's seen your _dress._ Why didn't you hide it better?

"Thank you," you say, breathless, and she smiles, taking her pint from the bartender - handing him the money - first sip.

She's not leaving.

"Do you usually go to sports bars?" she asks - and even though you feel out of place, and you're painfully vigilant for any suggested confirmation of it, her comment doesn't seem to be a jibe. She's curious why you're here.

"Oh... no, I... my friend fancies one of the staff. She hoped he'd be working, so she could have a look at him."

The tattooed woman grins. "Out on the hunt, are you?"

Is it possible to blush any deeper? You have a feeling you're going to find out.

"Not really, just... a drink with work-mates. It's - good to be sociable. Get out sometimes."

Agreement crosses her eyes.

She offers you a hand.

"Kit," she says.

_Kit._

Short for Katherine. Kitty as a kid, she tells you - hated it - endless photos of her crammed into tartan dresses at Christmas, looking sour and unfestive. Three brothers. Her mother was determined that the much-longed-for girl would _be_ a girl. So much for that. Spent her time climbing trees and rolling in the yard with the dog.

She's with the police now. Firearms unit. (And may God have mercy on your shrieking bisexual soul.) Out with her work colleagues - someone's birthday - the guy's a twat, but any excuse for pool and proper ale - thinking of heading to The Coach and Horses after this. She spent her early twenties travelling - and God, _you_ love South East Asia too. She likes your curls. You're blushing and smiling, shining. She grins as you tell her that you like her tattoos, and proudly she shows you the latest - a wolf-head stylised from a medieval manuscript, inked at her elbow. Running out of room now, she says. Going to have to grow another arm. She's got an eyebrow piercing. Her fingers are long, and she tells you she does MMA. She laughs as you visibly worry that this is a drug. Mixed Martial Arts, she says. Her trophies are back at home.

Your friend appears.

She brings with her a wild lurch of guilt, as you realise you'd forgotten the whole lot of them exist.

"Oh my God, where've you _been?_ We thought you'd been cornered by some weird bloke! Here, I'll take these two - can you bring the rest? C'mon, we've got a table in the corner. Lucy's still crying."

You can't think of an excuse.

You can't exactly say no - and you realise, heart sinking, that you can't even really say goodbye. Your friend's picking up two glasses, and glancing at you to get the rest and follow her, and you wonder with irrational panic if she somehow Knows - if they've been watching, suspicious - if this is their way of telling you they've noticed, and it's not right, and you're not meant to be like that, and you can stop it.

As you're following your friend across the bar, your pulse straining at your ribs, you glance back.

Kit is watching you go.

She drops you a wink goodbye.

You're not sure how long it is that you've hated all your friends. They're making it fairly easy, though. You hardly hear a word of the conversation, and what you do hear annoys you. They've given you a seat with your back to the bar (on purpose, you wonder?) and your work-mate demands to know if you checked whether Antony is working. She doesn't seem to believe your no, even though the five of you have been here nearly two hours now. You tell her she'd surely have spotted him by now, if he was. She retreats, offended, into the glass of white wine that _you_ bought for her, raising a slight eyebrow as she sips it in silence. The silence stretches. Your other friend begins to wonder whether Nick really loved her.

One AM, and your careful glances at the bar reveal that Kit is now long gone.

She's probably left by now. Your heart beats unhappily. You should have tried for a surname - or found some clever way to give her yours - at least then there'd be the chance of Facebook.

But it's too late for that.

Half one. You decide that if you stay out much longer, you're going to end up saying something you'll regret on Monday - and you have things to do tomorrow: not least guiltily taking care of yourself to the thought of tattoos and a mouth that tastes of cider.

You have to be a little rude in the end, insisting you're tired.

"But Lucy's upset," you're told. Lucy's been upset for some time now. She's slumped into a dazed puddle of gloomy alcoholic despair, and it's clear to you that what she really needs is sleep and sobriety - not more talk. Not more scrolling through Nick's Facebook page.

You need sleep and sobriety, too.

You thank them all for a wonderful night, agree that you should do this again really soon, and tell them you're getting a taxi.

It's fine, you tell them - you'll wait outside. Need some fresh air. Stuffy in here. They're not really buying it but you're cheerful and insistent enough that they let you go.

As you're waiting on the street for your taxi, the door of the bar squeaks often behind you, gasping noise and light into the night air. The first few times you check, in case it's your friends. Eventually, you stop caring. It's cold and you want to go home. You wonder if you could even have some tea before bed.

It's a surprise when the voice says,

"D'you smoke?"

_Oh._

_Oh my God._

"Um - n-no, I don't." You've spent twenty minutes praying for your taxi to hurry the hell up. Suddenly you hope they've lost you in the system. "But I mean, if you - if you want to - ... don't let me stop you."

Kit's eyes shine in the dark. She puts the cigarettes away, unlit, and comes to stand beside you. She's wearing a leather jacket.

"Just needed an excuse to come say hi again," she admits.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

"Sorry I - got pulled away," you manage, even as you panic that you're saying too much - giving too much away - but she's looking at you like she Knows, her eyes dark and soft, and like it's okay. Like she can handle what a wreck you are. Like she knows what she's doing to you, and it's alright. It's all alright. Your throat contracts with nerves. "My - friends are... n-no sense of timing."

Right on cue, a taxi slides to a stop by the pavement.

"Oh - _God_ \- and this is mine..."

You've waited twenty minutes in the cold.

Honestly, you'd wait an hour more.

But you realise how blatant that would be, and you can't cope with it. You can't cope with admitting that even to yourself, let alone to her.

"Where's home?" she asks.

You tell her your district; she smiles, her eyes bright in the dark.

"I'm near there," she says, and your heart nearly erupts. "Mind if I come with? I'll just carry on after you... saves me waiting for my own."

As she slams the door shut, and you settle side-by-side on the slippery leather seat, the light blinks out.

The taxi sets off.

Your dress feels suddenly thin; you're aware of your own perfume, the gentle shake of your curls on each bump the taxi takes, and the press of your thighs as you carefully cross them. The dark hugs around you both. The radio seems like a sorry attempt to dispel the heaving silence, and you feel awful for the taxi driver having to witness this - trying to drive a car that contains _this -_ this _hugeness_ \- and Kit's arm rests along the back of the seat.

"D'you have a boyfriend?" she asks.

_Oh. Oh, fuck._

"No," you manage. It's almost a squeak. In that single word, you hear everything.

Kit hears it, too.

Nothing else could explain that look on her face - that quiet, intimate look.

She pauses for a moment, watching you, and you realise you're being given the chance to stop something - to throw a diversion in her way - to fling something into this silence and break it if you want to, if you need to.

But you realise you're not stopping it. You don't know what it is, but you're not breaking it.

She eases close along the seat to you.

As your back presses against the side-door - as she leans in, and her fingers stroke over your cheek, brushing back your curls - your heart contracts so hard it makes your eyes flutter shut. The breath disappears from your lips.

She replaces it with her mouth.

She presses against you - warm, and firm, and she smells like all your boyfriends were meant to smell. That cypress scent intoxicates you as your breathe it in. Your fingers tremble as they wrap around her forearms, and she eases her tongue coaxingly into your mouth, and you've never fought so hard not to whimper in your life. Part of you is panicking about the driver; part of you is growing wet just thinking about it, turned on by the very thought of what you're doing right now - what you're _being_ \- the kind of girl who kisses a near-stranger in the back of a taxi, lets her kiss you, lets her tongue coil into your mouth and you want it to.

Kit strokes your curls restlessly. The intimate rhythm of her tongue, soothing between your lips, brings to your mind other rhythms - other soft, wet penetrations. As you shiver, heart pounding at the press of her chest into the rounded softness of your breasts, you realise her breath has shortened. She wants you, too.

You want it here. Right here. You don't care.

But as the taxi comes to a stop, with a very pointed jolt, reality and embarrassment flush through you - and you pull from the kiss, blushing - and reach nervously for your bag.

Kit watches you, dark-eyed. You're still leaning together, close, and both of you are trembling slightly. It feels almost like she's protecting you.

"Can I admit something?" she murmurs.

You pull your purse from your bag, fingers shaking. "S-Sure."

Her eyes flash with apology.

"I... don't live anywhere near here," she says.

Your fingers falter on the catch of your purse; you look up into her gaze.

She looks back at you, half-smiling - she's checking you once again - giving you that moment to stop. It's an even more serious look this time. Do you know what you're getting yourself in for? And there's a promise in her eyes that, if you say yes, she'll take it as a _yes._

And once again - with something that feels like thunder resounding between your ribs - you let the moment go.

Without taking her eyes from yours, Kit slides a folded note from the pocket of her jeans. She hands it to the driver. You fumble for the door. She doesn't wait for her change.

The place is a mess. Kit doesn't care. You've not got any coffee in - only tea. Kit doesn't care. There are a couple of stuffed animals on your bed, to your horror, but Kit doesn't care. She likes the fairy-lights around your bed-frame. She likes your purple sheets.

She likes the way you tremble when she lays you down upon them.

She eases on top of you to kiss you, and her fingers drive gently through your curls. She kisses you like she doesn't want you to forget her, ever. She kisses you like you're gorgeous. She kisses you like there's no longer a startled taxi-driver having a cheeky perve in the rear-view mirror. You push your hands beneath her jacket, and around her waist, terrified as you run your palms and fingertips over another woman's body - not a hug, like you give to your friends all the time - but this time with desire, with a heat that burns beneath the skin of your palms. There's a purpose to it that makes your pulse skip. Your hands move up her back - stroking, testing - and as you feel her shiver, a moan breaks free from you, muffled into the kiss.

Twin waves of embarrassment and arousal surge up at once. You realise you're turned on by the sound of yourself turned on.

Is that normal? It's never occurred to you with boyfriends. It's something about her - about what she's causing in you - and as her hands leave your hair, and graze instead over the black-and-white print of your dress, you ask yourself why you ever had any doubt that you're bi.

She strokes you - strokes you slowly. Your sides, your waist, your hips. A gentle brush of your breasts, and back to your sides. A man would have had his hands up your dress by now, and you'd be pushing aside the faint weary flicker of resignation - telling yourself they're just programmed that way - wishing you didn't have to deal with the constant retraining.

It's so nice not to feel that.

It's nice to relax - to stroke your fingers shyly into her hair, loosen her pony-band, and feel her grin as dark waves come tumbling around you.

"Is this okay?" she murmurs against your mouth.

You want the jacket off her. You want it off her now.

But there's a worry arising.

"I've - I've not, um... _been_ with - ..." It's suddenly important to say - to warn her - in case you're bad, you think. In case you underperform. Someone told you once that bi girls used to boyfriends are lazy in bed, and you haven't been able to put it out of your mind since - and oh _God,_ what are you _doing?_ She's on top of you, and she's come here for sex - and you've not wanted something so much in your life, but how can this _possibly_ go alright?

Then she brushes your cheek, and she smiles. Her eyes shine in the glow of your fairy-lights.

"S'okay," she murmurs. "We'll make it up as we go along. How's that?"

It sounds like a good idea for now.

Kit shrugs off her jacket, and lets it slump to the floor of your bedroom. Nervously you toe your shoes off - you're trying to remember with sudden concern what knickers you're wearing, and if they're company-suitable ones. She climbs onto the bed with you, and pulls you close, and for a long time there's just kissing. You start to feel like you can handle this. She's stroking you again, those long and gentle sweeps that are oddly settling, and by the time her fingertips come to linger over the zip of your dress, the fear has settled into a lower curve of its waxing and waning.

"Is this alright?" she says, as she eases down the zip.

The parting of the fabric makes you arch gently. Her fingertips brush your naked back - your bra strap - lower, the small of your spine.

"Oh _God,"_ you whimper, shivering - her hand idles over the curve of your hips. It brushes down your thigh, finally stealing beneath the hem of your dress.

She coaxes you to kiss her.

"Tell me if you need to slow down," she whispers, as your mouths join.

Tights, wriggled off - you help - a little laughter, a little bravery, and in the wake of it you nudge her onto her back and climb on top of her. You kneel astride her hips, and look down. The denim of her jeans is rough and reassuring against the softer, now-bare skin of your thighs. Your unzipped dress is easing itself playfully from your shoulders.

She gazes up at you, biting her lip. Her hands brush your sides.

You bite your lip, too. _Oh, fuck. Let's do this._ Shyly, you help the dress on its way.

It's not a matching set beneath - but you're learning enough about her now to know she doesn't mind. She pushes herself up beneath you, slides her hands up your naked back and nuzzles at once into your breasts, and in the wild rush of arousal it invokes, you barely notice her fingertips flicker across your bra strap.

A single neat motion, and the tension gives.

You think briefly of your last boyfriend - the entirely contraceptive experience of having someone fumble, tug, mutter and even twist at the thing, making noises as if the whole situation were unfathomable. Standing there feeling like a man-handled dressmaker's dummy, with his arms looped and struggling beneath yours, trying not to roll your eyes over his shoulder.

Then Kit slides your bra gently, effortlessly from your arms - and suddenly you can't remember if you've ever really _had_ a boyfriend.

Her mouth flashes softly between your breasts - the tender skin there - kissing gently at the red-lines from an underwire you've worn all day, her hands ghosting upwards to cup and stroke and massage your breasts. It feels so good that your head tips back at once; you bite down hard on a moan. As her mouth grazes the underside of your breasts, and her eyes lift to yours, it's impossible to keep hold of the sound. You start to shake. She eases her way to your tightening nipples, and her eyes close, and she bathes them with her mouth.

By the time she's rolling you gently onto your back, the cotton of your knickers feels soaked. You've never needed someone to tend to you so much in your life. She kisses her way down to remove your underwear, nuzzling at your tummy as she slips your briefs over your thighs. All the way down - one ankle, shy, and then the other - and they're tossed aside. She grasps the hem of her tank-top, stretches it over her head and throws that away too.

It means her shoulders are bare as she nuzzles between your thighs, and you seize hold of them - and grip hard at them, whimpering - and as her tongue slides through your wetness, the noise she makes nearly finishes you off. It's a sound of longing. Her hands slip beneath your open thighs, take hold of your hips and tug you a little down the bed, and between your legs becomes a blur of lapping, stroking and squirming - warm coils of sensation - the rub of her nose - comforting flashes with the flat of her tongue, little nuzzling circles with the pointed tip that make you want to scream. She traces the folds of you, gently up and down. She toys with your clitoris until your thighs tremble. Her shoulders are solid muscle under your grip.

Almost there, her hand leaves your hip. Her touch grazes back between your thighs.

A stroke; the slide of fingertips between your folds, firmer than her tongue - down - a single, slow, teasing swirl.

Two crossed fingers push within you at once - thick, deep and insistent.

You heave around them, crying as you come. Your grind your head back into the pillows as sharp, tingling ripples of it wave though your body, over and over, pulsing and singing, and through it all Kit is slowly licking you - slower - _slower_ \- barely moving - softening you, as you pant and drift.

Her fingers stir steadily within you.

"Good?" she murmurs; she kisses your clit. A little mark of honour.

You wonder why no man has ever thought to do that.

"Oh my God," you manage, wishing it weren't so high-pitched.

She smiles against your inner thigh. Her other hand has disappeared, but you can hear a belt buckle click as it comes undone. _Oh, fuck. Please. Yes, please._

"Okay to keep going?" she murmurs, nuzzling at your thigh.

"O-Oh God - yes..."

Jeans off - slid down without ceremony, and of course she has thigh tattoos. You're not in the best state to appreciate the artistic symbolism at this stage, but there's a tiger and more Latin and a band of barbed wire. Bra off - unclipped and shrugged aside. Her boy shorts stay, and you wonder if you're being given a safety barrier in case you want to stop - but then you're burrowing under the covers together, and the last thing you want to do in this entire world is stop.

For a while you talk softly - kissing, stroking. She tastes of you. It's almost like she's letting you acclimatise to the feel of her body against yours: the presence of breasts, which fascinate you; the curve of her waist; the gorgeous patterns of her tattoos. You find yourself kissing them, just wanting to touch them with your lips as well as your eyes - and she grins, and lays back and lets you - and shyly you lean over her. You take the opportunity to kiss at her neck. The muscles there work gently beneath your lips as she swallows. Fingertips down her sides, skating, and she gives a moan low in her throat. The sound is beguiling; you immediately want more. Her hands brush from your thighs to your waist, then down, rounding the curve of your rump - she squeezes a little and you quiver, pushing against her - the press of your breasts - your softness against her more solid pad of muscle. She bites gently at your lips as she kisses them.

"D'you have any toys, sweetheart?" she murmurs. Her eyes gleam.

You blush. You're so used to hiding them - even from partners. Sometimes _especially_ from partners. Men who saw such things as unnecessary, now that they were on the scene. Men who got upset; men who took offence. Men who had to be cajoled and assured that they alone were the Real Thing, and these devices but a poor substitution.

Then you're handing Kit your favourite from the bedside drawer - pink, silicone and shaped - and she's murmuring to you to open a little for her, nudging you up her body so that your breasts are brought level with her mouth. She takes advantage of this fact at once. As you part your thighs, quaking, her fingertips seek you out and she mouths fondly at your nipples. The nuzzle of your toy makes you squeak.

She penetrates you slowly - inch by inch, making you beg and plead for more each time. It can vibrate, but you don't even need that just now. Just being filled feels good. Lying on top of her, your thighs spread, filled and fucked by your toy, panting as she laps and kisses at your breasts. As the moans trickle from your lips, you reach a shaking hand down her body, brushing over the flatness of her stomach.

Your fingers slide beneath the waistband of her shorts - down, into heat and a wetness that takes your breath - she feels familiar. She feels like you. Silky, parting, searching with your fingertips and just sliding up and down as the toy now slicks in and out of you in time, and you want to sob.

"Fuck," she gasps against your breasts. Shaking, she pulls a hand around your back - tugging you down, closer - she nuzzles urgently into your softness, breathing hard. "F-Fuck. Faster, gorgeous."

A little faster; and in turn, she fucks you harder. This can't possibly feel any better, but then with a jolt of sudden sensation you realise she's found the button for the vibration. You cry out and beg at once for more.

It has three levels. You're ready for three. You want to come again.

Kit keeps you on one - even as you wriggle and pant, and spread your thighs, and rub her clit hard and stiff for her. Her teeth sink into her lip, but she keeps you on one.

Her eyes burn as she watches you.

She likes the sounds you're making; she likes the untempered pleasure that courses through your face. She enjoys your pleading.

You _like_ her enjoying your pleading.

You want to see her enjoying something else.

"Please," you whimper. There's something you need to do before you come again, frightened you'll be too sensitive to carry on. "Please, I - ... let me go down on you. Please."

Her left eyebrow twitches; it's hard to see within the darkness of her eyes, but her pupils grow.

"You sure?" she pants. With a frustrated whine you wriggle, and start easing down the bed. She draws the toy from you; the loss of it leaves you aching, empty. You decide you'll earn it back.

The shorts come down over the finely-honed muscles in her thighs; together you get them off. You splay your hands at her lower stomach, shivering, just looking at her - dark hair and tattoos - you lick the tiger you saw earlier, and the black roses tumbling over her hip, and as she shudders and opens her thighs for you, lying back, you don't have a clue what you're doing.

But it's good.

You're just exploring - but that seems to be enough for her. Your inquisitive laps and gentle parting with your fingers make her groan slightly, and her breath catches, and her muscles unwind.

As her fingers tangle into your dishevelled curls, and gently take hold of you, you decide you're staying here until you've learnt.

She's so wet. Just the feel of it arouses you; the slickness you draw your tongue through, slowly, circling round and round and trying with the flat of your tongue, the point, stroking, rubbing, flicking. It's easier just to keep your mouth open and pant. Her fingers curl a little tighter in your hair, and as you glance up from between her thighs, you find her watching you intensely. As you meet eyes, she shudders - rocks her hips a little towards you - two fingers, like she did for you, and she moans it from deep in her throat. Her free hand lifts up to wrap around a black bar of your bed-frame. You watch her grip; you feel her shift. You try the crooking and beckoning motion that has always worked on you, and she breathes it in, hard, her moans tightening. The increasing grip on your hair makes you tingle, and you're not sure why - your breasts, your clit, between your thighs, aching with heat. You work a little harder, flicking faster, firmer, plunging your fingers steady and rhythmic now, letting her rely on that. You remember those men who could only seem to appreciate rhythm when it was for their benefit.

They're gone now.

There's only her now - only Kit - Kit, and the noises she makes as you flash your tongue eagerly from side-to-side.

"Fuck, that's it... _f-fuck..."_ Her muscles are tensing - and Jesus, you _feel_ it - her thighs around you, muscles inside her, her back bracing against the bed. Her head falls back and she moans, hissing. "Fuck, fuck - perfect - perfect, _perfect - "_

As she comes - panting your name, twisting her fingers a little hard in your curls - you realise that men close-off when they come. They're gone for a few seconds while they feel it. They're whirled up in it, alone. They might grip your body - but really, they're gripping onto the feeling. They push you out.

Kit pulls you in.

Flashes of her eyes; arching for you, breathing deep - hugging your fingers hard with her body, moaning because she needs you to keep going. She needs you to coax her through. You keep on lapping, shivering, licking at her gently even as she comes. It's not an end, you realise. It's just happening. It thrills you. She's not going to be asleep in fifteen minutes. She's going to be here with you, awake, making love, and as she starts to drift free of the full force, she groans for you softly and gasps.

"C'mere, baby girl," she breathes.

_Baby girl._

You wouldn't take it from a man.

But it's something about her tone. Fond, gentle. It's something about the protectiveness of her arms as she pulls you close, wanting to hold you - wanting to get her mouth onto your neck, as she pants for you. She pets your curls. You kiss, tasting each other now, facing each other on your sides. You find yourself stroking her breasts - padding, shaping, squeezing - she pushes her tongue deeper into your mouth, and you blur together at the edges, melting, ribbons braided in this moment together.

After some time, she pats your upper thigh.

"Up," she whispers against your mouth, and draws your leg forward to rest on her.

It opens you. You realise what's coming and it burns through you, desperate again in the space of a heartbeat. _Oh, God. Fuck me. Fill me._

It takes your breath all the same - the nuzzle, nosing between your legs.

You squirm, kissing her, and tremble as your toy slowly stretches its way back inside you again. Gentle circles, easing. Stirring. Deep - to the base - a gentle click.

One. Quiet ripples, and she watches your face as you relax into it, the warmth vibrating through you. You'll never be able to use this again without thinking of her. It will never feel as good.

Two; your breath hitches. _Almost, almost._ Your hips start to rock, and as you bite your lip, she swears softly and tells you you're fucking gorgeous. It leaves you whimpering; she drinks the whimpers from your mouth, pushing firmly in and out now, taking you, giving you this, relentless, and the lightest stroke of your clit will have you coming in floods for her. You can't breathe.

Three.

Fucking _three._

Pulsing, resounding - deep and desperate. The whole world shrinks to a handful of sensations. The vibration inside you, and the steady rhythm with which it fucks you, reassuring, right there, just perfect; the hand that toys with your messy head of curls as you fall apart for her; the mouth kissing yours, the soft things it says, the smell of her fragrance. You're on the brink. You're so close. Another minute, and you can't possibly cope any longer - you can't hang like this forever, and your clit is burning for stimulation, but the pleasure's still building. Kit's carrying you in this. She holds you safer than you've ever been.

A gentle twist of her wrist; she pushes the toy deep, deep and hard, easing her palm on the base to angle it forwards in your body. The vibrations surge deliciously within you. At the same time, her thumb slides up through your wetness, finds your clit and just flashes back and forth - merciless, rough - and you're going to come for her. She knows it. Nothing's possessed you so powerfully in your life. You gasp, and tighten, and the white burn breaks open inside you.

You come begging her to fuck you all night - not to stop - come pleading with her to make you come.

And in the aftermath, she catches your hand - drawing it urgently between her thighs. She's shaking. She can't wait a second longer.

"Fuck," she breathes, and bites at your lower lip. "Fuck me up, you're _beautiful."_

 

* * *

 

Four in the morning.

Does lesbian sex normally include a tea-break? You don't care. You're sitting trembling within a mess of sheets and pillows, your curls fuzzed into chaos, make-up everywhere - you haven't dared to find a mirror - and you've only stopped because her touch has become almost painful on your skin. You were panting too hard the last time. The pleasure-pain worked for you, for one orgasm. Now you need to rest - or there's a fairly serious chance you might die.

You're not getting anything done tomorrow.

This much, you know for a fact.

Kit pads back into your bedroom, utterly naked and unfazed, and carrying two mugs of tea. She's made it strong. Clearly, she thinks that you need it. You blush as she hands you the mug, mumbling your shy thanks and smiling. Her eyes flash, pleased. She settles into the ruins of your bed right beside you.

You lean into her side, cosy, and hold the mug in both hands.

For a little while, you just breathe together and drink. She strokes her mouth over your bare shoulder; your skin feels so smooth and unmarked compared to hers. You feel pale and pink and shy. You feel brand new.

"What're you doing later?" she murmurs, trailing a hand down the curve of your back.

 _Oh my God. Please, please._ "I, um... I don't have any plans."

It's not really a lie.

You _had_ plans, once - all sorts of plans, and not just for today. You had plans for the week, the month, this year, next.

Suddenly everything's a lot more open than that.

Something's starting - and you can feel it as real and deep beneath your skin as you felt each climax. You can't quite match up how you feel right now with that person you were last night - the person who wore your clothes, carried your bag and your purse, talked to your work-mates in the bar. It feels like that person wasn't real. She was just a transport, you think. Carrying you here.

And now you have arrived.

"Can I stay and make you breakfast?" Kit asks; she holds your gaze in hers.

_Oh, God._

"I'd... like that," you whisper. She grins, enjoying every flicker of joy in your face. "I don't - don't normally - ... I mean, I don't do... one night things. Usually. This is, um..."

She nestles her nose within your curls.

A moment's pause - holding something in her mouth. She decides to say it.

"Then don't," she advises, and leans in to kiss you.

 

* * *

 

You meet her Friday after work.

A South-East Asian restaurant in the city centre. She arrives in a sharp navy shirt, and her eyes light up as she sees the dress you've chosen - a skater-dress, red - you so rarely wear red.

She makes you feel it, though. She makes you feel like rubies and roses.

She's wearing night-time cologne that leaves you swooning at the first breath; you've kissed before you're even in the restaurant. You can't wait. You can't play cool with this - you've gone all in, and you don't care if it seems too eager. You can't help it.

You've spent all week thinking about her - and all day texting her. She's spent all day texting back. She's teased you that she'll bring along her gun-belt; you've teased her she can leave the gun-belt on.

Over Amok Trey and Cha K'dam, you play with each other's hands.

When the taxi arrives at ten, it takes you to an address you've never been, to a flat you've never visited, and to a bed that within minutes, you never want to leave.

You're not sure how you're going to tell work. Friends, family. You don't know how you'll ever find the courage to do that.

But you will, somehow.

Kit will show you how.

 


End file.
